


Charlotte

by Quentanilien



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quentanilien/pseuds/Quentanilien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six times Bass called her Charlotte, and one time he called her Charlie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time he saw her, she couldn’t have been more than a couple of months old. He and Miles had recently returned from their first tour in Iraq, and Ben was eager for his only brother to meet his firstborn. Bass had little interest in babies, but Miles dragged him along anyway. 

He lounged in a kitchen chair while Miles held the baby and Rachel made dinner. Ben kept popping back and forth between stirring the soup on the stove, making sure his brother wasn’t dropping the baby, and watching the Bears game in the living room. During one of the latter trips, they heard him give a loud whoop and call for Miles to “get in here.”  With an indulgent little sigh, he stood up and tried to hand the baby to Rachel. She smiled and held up her floury hands in protest. Not skipping a beat, Miles veered toward Bass instead, neatly depositing the little bundle into his arms. Bass gave a groan of defeat while Rachel turned back to her baking and laughed at him.

“Sorry, Bass,” she said. “Either you hold her or there won’t be any dessert.”

He chuckled ruefully. “I might just rather go without dessert.” Rachel shot him an exasperated look over her shoulder. 

He looked down. She was asleep, tiny thumb tucked in her mouth, and it wasn’t so bad. He was fairly certain he hadn’t held a baby since his youngest sister was that age. He didn’t remember them feeling so feather-light and fragile, but he’d been a lot smaller then as well. 

“Charlotte, huh?” he asked, wondering why they’d picked that particular name. It sounded oddly stilted and old-fashioned for a baby. He’d never met a Charlotte before, but the image it called to his mind was that of an old woman. 

“It was my grandmother’s name,” Rachel explained as she kneaded the pie crust. “She was…the best woman I’ve ever known.” 

Her back was to him, but Bass didn’t miss the catch in her voice. “I’m sure she’d say the same about you.” He meant it, too. Rachel was a hell of a woman. 

She turned to look at him again. She was the least emotional woman he’d ever encountered, but there was a sparkle of tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Bass,” she said quietly. Then she blinked, and the sparkle was gone. “There’s another reference in there too, but Ben would kill me if I told you.” She flashed a smile and turned back to making the pie. 

Bass smirked. “Well you gotta tell me now.” 

He could hear a fond smile in Rachel’s voice. “Ben’s favorite children’s book. Charlotte’s Web.” 

“Charlotte’s a little girl?” 

Rachel’s head whipped around to stare at him in disbelief. “You never read Charlotte’s Web? Wilbur the pig? Templeton the rat?” 

He extricated his right arm from the baby’s blanket and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well no. I wasn’t much of a reader as a kid.” 

He didn’t like how amused she was by this. “Charlotte is a spider. Hence the web.” 

Bass let out a bark of laughter. “You let your husband name this poor kid after a spider?” 

“After my _grandmother_. Ben says the spider is just a bonus, and that she’s the best fictional portrayal of true friendship he’s ever read.” 

“A _spider_?” 

Rachel raised an eyebrow at him as she turned the pie tin to crimp the edges of the crust. “Maybe if you read more, you’d understand. That was the first book that ever made me cry. Charlotte’s selfless and kind, and she saves someone’s life. I’d be very proud if our Charlotte turns out to be like either of her namesakes.” 

Bass looked down at little Charlotte as she squirmed in her sleep and snuggled against his chest. He chuckled and said, “Still, I think the poor little thing might need a nickname until she’s grown up.” 

“Probably.” He looked up to see Rachel had washed her hands and was leaning against the counter watching them thoughtfully. “You know, Bass, you don’t look nearly as uncomfortable holding a baby as you’d like everyone to believe.” 

He scoffed at that. “This isn’t another lecture about ‘settling down,’ is it?” 

“No,” she said mildly. “I just want to make sure you think about what you really want out of life. Endless flings get old eventually.”

Bass felt his smile fade on his face. “Should I go get Miles? Because I think that’s who you’re really trying to say this to.” 

Rachel’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She always, always pretended Bass didn’t know about her and Miles. As if Bass wasn’t closer to Miles than his own brother was.

Bass raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

“I’ll take Charlotte now,” she said stiffly, ignoring him. The baby woke up as she transferred from Bass’s arms to Rachel’s and started fussing a little. Rachel swung her gently in her arms, expression suddenly transformed in a tender smile. She’d never struck him as a maternal woman. She was all strong will and quick wit and prickly edges, always had been and always would be. But there was a new dimension to her now as well. He looked away, feeling like he was intruding in an intimate moment.

Despite her slightly unfortunate name, Charlotte was a very lucky little girl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sort of shipping Bass and Charlie since watching the second half of season 1, so I don't know what it says about me that writing fic about him being an adult while she's a baby is doing nothing to dampen my Bass/Charlie enthusiasm. But I couldn't resist writing some pre-blackout Happy!Bass, because post-blackout Angsty!Bass breaks my heart.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time he saw Charlotte, her newborn days were long behind her. She was a toddler now, stomping around on chubby little legs. Her downy baby hair had been replaced by blonde waves that fell to her chin, and she had a charming little gap between her front teeth.

She hung back as he and Miles walked through the front door with their duffel bags, peeking around the banister at them as the adults greeted each other with hugs. 

Ben beckoned her over. “Don’t be shy, sweetie. We told you Uncle Miles was coming for a visit, remember? Come say hi.” 

She inspected Miles for a few seconds, then toddled up to him and, to everyone’s surprise, stuck her little hand out as if she expected him to shake it. Miles grinned as he dropped his duffel on the floor and leaned down towards her. “Uncle Miles doesn’t stand on ceremony.” And, quick as a flash, he had her up in his arms and was twirling her around the room. She giggled and squealed, and he planted a huge smack of a kiss on her cheek before depositing her back on the floor.

She stumbled against Ben’s leg, dizzy and still giggling from all the spinning, then blinked confusedly as she tried to orient herself to the floor again. Ben smiled down at her fondly. “Say hi to Miles’s friend Bass, too.” 

Out came the little hand again as she took a step towards Bass. He squatted down to her level, trying and mostly failing to suppress a grin at her childish formality. He took her tiny hand gently in his and shook it, saying solemnly, “Hello, Charlotte. It’s nice to meet you.” 

A little crease appeared between her eyebrows, and then her nose wrinkled up. “Charlie,” she said. 

“No, my name’s Bass.” 

“ _Charlie_ ,” she said more forcefully. “Name’s Charlie.” 

“She’s turned against Charlotte,” Rachel explained, patting the subject of discussion on the head. “I think Ben showed her Charlie Bit Me on YouTube a few too many times.” She glanced accusingly at Ben, who just laughed. 

Charlotte grinned. “Ouch, Charlie,” she said. 

Bass and Miles looked blankly at each other. Iraq wasn’t exactly the best place to keep up with American pop culture.

“It’s a viral video,” Ben explained. “Little British baby named Charlie bites his brother’s finger. It’s a lot funnier than it sounds. I’ll show you later.”

Bass vaguely recalled telling Rachel once that Charlotte needed a nickname, but after seeing the video, he couldn’t bring himself to call her the same name as a bald British baby and a bald comic strip character. 

Charlotte was enamored with “Unca Miles.” She dragged him around with her everywhere, and what was most surprising was that Miles seemed to enjoy it. Bass had never seen a more ridiculous sight than when Charlotte shoved a pink toy teapot into the battle-hardened Marine’s hands and demanded that they have a tea party. Unless it was the sight of Miles pouring imaginary tea and eating imaginary cookies off a plastic plate with only the faintest trace of irony. 

She was the funniest mix of tomboy and girly girl he’d ever seen. His little sisters had been pretty prim and proper at that age, and he remembered it frustrating him to no end. They’d shrieked if they got muddy, and they’d followed the rules better at the age of three than he ever had in his life. Charlotte, on the other hand, was fearless. The dark didn’t scare her, or the stairs, or heights, or much of anything, it seemed. This invariably led to a lot of scrapes and bruises which she never learned from. “Charlie do it!” was her constant refrain, and she certainly did try to do everything. On the other hand, she had a pair of flowery purple shoes she refused to take off, and she changed her outfit at least three times a day just for the fun of it. Not to mention the endless tea parties. 

Three days into their visit, Bass offered to watch her for a while because Ben and Rachel wanted to show Miles the new, larger lab they’d moved to for their research work, and a lab was the worst place to take a reckless toddler. 

“So, Charlotte,” he asked as soon as everyone left. “What should we do? No tea parties.” 

“Charlie.” She frowned at him, scrunching up her nose in that displeased expression he was becoming so familiar with. He’d turned the name thing into a sort of game. He got way too much amusement out of her irritation. 

“Okay, Charlotte.” 

“Charlie!” And she actually stomped her foot, glaring at him icily. There wasn’t much of Ben in this one. No, this one was all Rachel. He grinned and didn’t say anything. 

“Play princess!” she announced imperiously, and Bass groaned. Outwitted by a two-year-old. 

“Bass stay here,” she added, leaving the living room. In a few seconds, he heard her thumping up the stairs. He picked up a copy of _National Geographic_ off the coffee table and started flipping through it while he waited. After a few minutes, he noticed the house was oddly silent. “Charlotte?” he called. No response. He got up and walked into the entryway so he could peek up the staircase. She was standing a few steps from the top, trying to go down the stairs backwards while dragging a plastic storage bin full of toys that was tipped at a precarious angle. 

“Woah, woah, woah, Charlotte, stop!” He took the stairs two at a time before she could fall, feeling like the worst babysitter in the world. He grabbed the sides of the bin. “I got it. Hold onto the railing while you go down.” 

But she wouldn’t let it go. “Charlie help!” Bass sighed in defeat, and she went down the stairs sideways with her fingers wrapped around a corner of the bin. 

They sat on the floor in the living room and she began rifling through the contents of the bin. He noticed she’d changed into a princess dress while she was upstairs, and he was just thinking he’d escaped the princess part himself when she toddled up to him and plopped a plastic tiara on his head. “Pretty!” 

“Oh no…” he started to protest, just about to take it off when he noticed how happy she looked. She didn’t have any siblings to play with, and no one was home to see him making a fool of himself. He settled the tiara more firmly on his head instead. Charlotte gasped. “Dragon!” then grabbed his hand and took off running for the kitchen. 

It turned out playing princess for Charlotte involved dressing up, then running all over the house bumping into things before collapsing into a breathless giggling heap on the floor, then getting up to do it all over again. When she tired out, she collapsed onto his lap with a book. “Read please.” And he couldn’t say no to that either. 

They were on their fourth book when he heard a wry voice saying, “Bass, what are you wearing?” He looked up with a start to see Miles leaning in the doorway. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. 

Bass grinned slowly. “Haven’t you seen a crown before, Miles?” Miles snorted, but before he could say anything else Bass added, “I got two words for you, buddy: pink teapot. You wanna play this game?” 

“Oh, you bet I do…” Miles was starting to say when Rachel came into the living room and shushed them both. “She’s falling asleep,” she whispered. “I’d better get her to bed.” 

As Rachel slid her out of his arms, Bass whispered, “’Night, Charlotte.” 

He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he heard her mumble “Charlie” as her mom carried her out of the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us all have a moment of silence for Happy!Bass, because after this he's (mostly) gone.


	3. Chapter 3

After the car accident, Miles dragged Bass with him to Chicago for Christmas. It was the last place Bass wanted to go. He wanted to go home. He wanted to hug his mom and bury his face against the collar of her shirt where she’d smell like pine needles and cookies. He wanted to see his little sisters’ eyes light up as they tore the wrapping paper off the presents he bought them. He wanted to feel snowflakes catching in the stubble of his beard while he chopped wood for the fireplace with his dad. 

There was a gaping, aching hole inside his chest, but a cruel corner of his mind still whispered to him that if he would just go _home_ , there they would all be waiting for him, like always. It sent him into the sort of catatonic state he hadn’t been in since the immediate aftermath. 

“Come on, Bass,” Miles had said in his usual no-nonsense tone. “I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

Bass sat on his bed, staring dully at the floor. He heard Miles open his closet door and start piling clothes haphazardly into a suitcase. 

“No,” he whispered. Miles didn’t hear him. He tried again, voice gravelly like he hadn’t used it in days. Maybe he hadn’t. “No.” 

“Bass.” He managed to snap his gaze away from the floor to meet Miles’s concerned brown eyes. “I’m not letting you stay here. You’d spend Christmas with a bottle of whiskey.” Miles had never been overly concerned about his drinking habits. There was a different worry hanging in the air, unspoken. 

Bass laughed mirthlessly. “You can take my gun. You know I’m not going to do anything.” 

“Do I?” 

Bass tried to chuckle but it sounded more like a sob and he leaned forward to bury his face in his hands. “Miles, you can’t keep your eye on me 24/7. You just gotta trust me. Go be with your family.” 

After a few seconds of silence, Miles noisily zipped the suitcase shut and moved towards Bass. He looked up to see his friend was crouched in front of him, looking more stubborn than ever. “Told you a million times, Bass. We’re brothers, we’re family. My family is your family. Got it?” 

Bass scrubbed his hands across his face and glared at his best friend. It never mattered what he said. Miles always got his way. 

If truth be told, it wasn’t that he exactly wanted to spend Christmas alone. He really didn’t. But he was hard pressed to think of a more uncomfortable place for him to spend the holidays than the happy domesticity of the Matheson house. 

The porch was ablaze with Christmas lights, and the largest wreath Bass had ever seen bedecked the front door. Ben never did anything by halves. The family was gathered at the front door to greet them, Ben happy and welcoming as always, Rachel flushed from the warmth of the house and resting her arms on the gentle swell of her stomach. Bass studiously avoided looking at Charlotte. It hurt too much. As it was, he could hardly manage to meet Rachel’s quietly sympathetic gaze as she leaned over to hug him. 

Miles squatted down to greet his niece. “Hey, Charlie. Been causing chaos like I taught you?” 

“What’s chaos?” she asked quizzically in her slightly lisping toddler voice. 

“What’s all over your shirt?” 

“Cookie dough,” Rachel replied before Charlotte could answer. “She’s been _helping_ me. She seems to think her shirt is the cookie sheet.” 

Miles laughed and ruffled her hair. “That’s my girl!” 

Bass felt a tug on his jeans, and he couldn’t avoid looking down any longer. Charlotte was grinning up at him. He was a little surprised she remembered him, toddlers’ memories being what they were. He’d been prepared for her not to, had even decided it would be easier that way. 

He tried to muster up a smile for her. “Hello, Charlotte.” 

She grinned at him brightly. “Hi, ’Bastian.”

He looked at her blankly. “Huh?” 

Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “The…bast…ian,” she said, slowly and carefully, pronouncing each syllable like it was a separate word. Then she grinned proudly. 

“Who told you my full name?” 

“Daddy.” 

Bass glanced at the other adults. Miles was laughing at him. 

“Ben!” Bass protested. “You know I don’t like that name. Nobody calls me that.” 

“Sorry.” Ben looked sheepish. “She asked me. She’s been asking when ’Bastian is coming for a visit ever since.” 

Miles chuckled and nodded approvingly. “A little old-fashioned payback. I like it. Good job, Charlie.” 

Bass shot a glare at him. Traitor. 

During dinner, Charlotte informed him she had another friend named Sebastian. Ben snorted into his beer and Rachel smiled a little private smile. 

“Oh really, Charlotte?” he said genially. 

She scowled at him. “Yes. I show you later.” 

True to her word, she grabbed Miles’s hand in one of hers and Bass’s in the other after dinner and tugged them both into the living room, settling them on the couch while she toddled over to put a DVD in. Kids these days. They were way better at technology than he’d ever be. 

The menu popped up on the flatscreen and Bass groaned and hid his eyes. _The Little Mermaid_. He should have seen this coming. He was very familiar with the entire Disney anthology. It was kind of inevitable, growing up with two….No, he wasn’t going to think about that right now. 

Miles clearly knew nothing about this movie, or he would already be ribbing him about it. Bass leaned back into the couch, slouching and spreading his legs. Might as well get comfortable for the humiliation. Charlotte wriggled up onto the couch between him and Miles. She looked way too pleased with herself. 

“You are really evil, you know that?” he said to her. She blinked her guileless blue eyes at him. 

It didn’t take much of the movie for Miles to notice. “So…Sebastian’s a singing crab, huh?” He looked at Bass over Charlotte’s head, the corner of his mouth twitching crazily like it always did when he was trying hard not to laugh. 

Bass slouched down more and folded his arms over his chest. “Shut up.” 

Charlotte shushed them and pointed at the tv in delight. “Scuttle!” 

Her revenge plan was forgotten with the typical shifting rapidity of a toddler’s attention span, and she was now fully absorbed in the movie itself, naming all the characters and giggling and hiding behind Miles’s arm whenever the evil octopus woman appeared. 

Bass lost himself in the movie and the bright glow of the lights on the Christmas tree and the faint humming of the dishwasher in the kitchen and the comfortable feeling of two warm, happy people next to him. He was surprised to realize the constant ache in his chest had eased a bit, for the first time since his world had been shattered into pieces that would never fit back together the way they were before. 

He could feel the couch shake a little from Miles’s suppressed laughter every time the “singing crab” was onscreen, and when the chef came after it with a knife, Bass was surprised to feel warm, tiny fingers clutching his arm tightly, and he looked down to see Charlotte peeking around it with wide blue eyes. 

“Don’t worry,” she whispered reassuringly. “’Bastian’s gonna be okay.” 

He felt a prickle of tears behind his eyes, and maybe Charlotte was right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All dialogue in this chapter is taken from Revolution, which I obviously don't own, or Bass would get a lot more screen time.

He hadn’t seen her for years; he didn’t know how many. Sixteen? Seventeen? He never really thought about her after the blackout. This wasn’t a world for pretty little girls with blonde pigtails. Odds were she didn’t last long. He didn’t want to think about that. It was ironic, really. He was almost glad his little sisters had died when they did so they never had to live in this new, brutal world. 

After Rachel had turned herself in, he couldn’t help thinking of Charlotte sometimes, always with a little stab of guilt as he pictured her wondering where her mother was. She was perpetually an adorable tornado of a toddler in his mind, all grubby hands and mischievous blue eyes. But the guilt was counterproductive, and besides, Rachel was the one who had left her family. So he locked the memories of Charlotte and the Matheson house away in the recesses of his mind with all the other inconvenient memories he would rather not dwell on. 

Now, years later, it was practically a Matheson family reunion. He felt like laughing about it, but he didn’t know why because it wasn’t funny. It was so messed up. Everything was backwards, and he still didn’t understand how it had gotten that way. They should all be working together, should have been working together from the very beginning. But it was far too late for that. 

Rachel was reluctant to turn the power back on for the Monroe Republic, and if he needed to use her children to persuade her to do it, well, that was on her. She’d been uncooperative for years, but now he finally had some leverage, and he needed to use it. And quickly, before Miles showed up and managed to ruin it somehow. Neville had assured him he’d have Miles captured in short order, but Bass was skeptical. The major didn’t know Miles like he did. 

He downed the rest of his glass of whiskey and straightened his jacket, steeling himself to crash the family reunion. Of course, they were down there with Strausser right now, so his company could only be an improvement. 

As he descended the stairs, he saw Rachel crouching in front of her son and another woman sitting next to him on the couch, dabbling at some blood on his chin. He realized with a start that she must be Charlotte. 

“Rachel,” he said pleasantly as she turned to look at him. “Must be nice having both your children back.” 

 She didn’t respond, just watched him approach the couch where her children were sitting. Charlotte had turned away from her brother to look at him as well. He got his first full view of her face, and it struck him as ridiculous that he had just referred to her as a child. He looked for some familiar feature, but it was like meeting a completely different person. He’d never have known it was her if he saw her on the street. Not that he wouldn’t have noticed her on the street. Her blue eyes held his defiantly, and even at rest, her lithe body seemed ready to leap into action at any moment. Oh, he definitely would have noticed her. 

“Hello, Charlotte,” he said. There was no hint of recognition in her eyes. Of course she wouldn’t have a single memory left of him; she’d been far too young. He remembered her insistent “ _Charlie_!” and it brought a faint smile to his lips. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m General Monroe.” Because it was a first meeting of sorts; General Monroe introducing himself to this young woman he didn’t recognize. She said nothing, only looked at him silently. A small, ridiculous part of him was disappointed she didn’t try to correct his use of her full name. 

“What did you do to my son?” Rachel asked accusingly, like it was his fault she kept refusing to cooperate with him. 

“I am completely and utterly done playing games with you, Rachel,” he replied evenly, turning to look at her. He was still upset with her for trying to build a bomb under the guise of an amplifier. Did the woman have a death wish? And did she take him for an idiot? “You know what that is, right?” he continued conversationally, gesturing at the amplifier Dr. Jaffe had been working on before Rachel had stabbed him with a screwdriver. He felt a chill down his body still at the memory of how cold and efficient Rachel had been as she’d done it. He’d known her for a long time, and he knew she was capable of a lot of things, but he’d never expected to see her do something like that. 

“Amplifier,” she answered quietly. 

“A real one. Your friend, Dr. Jaffe, was building me a backup. That is, until you shoved a screwdriver into his chest.” He was interested to see Charlotte’s reaction to this bit of information. 

She finally spoke, voice soft and unsure. “Mom.” 

Bass turned to look at her. “Oh, I’m sure there’s a lot about your mom you don’t know.” How could she, when Rachel had always kept the part she’d played in the blackout a well-guarded secret from the world? Charlotte was probably still under the impression that her mother was a mild-mannered housewife who’d been captured and oppressed by General Monroe for no good reason. Well, he was more than happy to enlighten her. “You’ve seen one of these pendants before, right? “ He held up the object in question. “Know what it can do? Well, that machine amplifies its range; it makes jets fly. Tanks roll.” Not that Charlotte would understand the full significance of either of those things. “And your mother’s going to finish it for me.” 

Charlotte had kept her gaze fixed intently on him while he was talking, but now it flicked to Rachel. “Mom, what’s he talking about?” 

Rachel said nothing, as usual when the truth was inconvenient to her. “She’s going to be a real patriot, isn’t that right, Rachel?” He looked at her significantly, knowing she would understand the meaning behind his words. He’d keep both her children safe, and she would cooperate with him in return. No further threats should be necessary. Rachel was well aware of the stakes involved. Bass waited for her to capitulate. 

But Charlotte was talking again. “Mom. Look at me. Whatever he’s asking you to do, you can’t do it.” 

Well, that was unexpected. He’d assumed she would just cower down silently like her brother. This was a problem, since Rachel seemed to be listening to her. If she wasn’t trying to thwart his plans, he’d be pretty amused at her obvious idealism. Charlotte Matheson, naïve child of the blackout, had already decided she was the hero and he was the villain, without truly knowing anything about the Monroe Republic or the importance of restoring the power. How conveniently simple her life must be, arranging everyone into black and white categories. Bass hadn’t had the luxury of that kind of worldview since he’d shipped out to the Middle East at the age of nineteen. He wondered where Miles fit into Charlotte’s categorization, and he was genuinely surprised she could still be thinking in those terms after traveling with the man for so long. Unless he was withholding a lot of information about his past from her. Much like her mother.

Charlotte’s reaction had caught him off guard, but he had a contingency plan in place. He’d be a worthless militia leader if he didn’t. He allowed himself a little smirk, directed at Charlotte. “Is that so?” 

He gestured to Strausser, who pulled out his pistol and finally managed to wrench a reaction from the placid Rachel. She launched herself in front of her children, saying “No” over and over again. Bass only peripherally noticed this since his eyes were still fixed on Charlotte, who had instinctually shifted in front of her brother. Interesting that she felt such a strong urge to protect him when he was nearly as grown up as she was, but then, Bass supposed she’d been more of a mother than a sister to him ever since their actual mother left them. As for the kid, he made no such protective move towards his sister. It was clear which one of them had inherited all the courage. Perhaps Charlotte was not as naïve as he’d thought. 

“Mrs. Matheson, I’m sorry,” he heard Strausser saying, “but you need to choose which one of your children I’m going to kill.” 

Bass turned to gauge Rachel’s reaction. “You son of a bitch!” she shouted at him. He was unfazed. If she’d only complied earlier, this second tactic wouldn’t have been necessary. 

“Listen to me…” Charlotte started to say, but Strausser interrupted her to repeat his question. 

But she was nothing if not persistent. There was the Charlotte he’d known. “I’ve seen the militia kill dozens of people, and if you help him, they will kill hundreds if not thousands, Mom.” Bass could have laughed at the irony. How many thousands, perhaps millions, of people had Rachel indirectly killed if her knowledge about turning the power back on was any indication of her role in the blackout? Now was not the time for appreciating irony, however. He was having difficulty deciding which Matheson woman to look at, and he was quickly getting irritated at Charlotte for ruining the contingency plan. If she’d kept quiet, Rachel would have given in already. 

“The boy or the girl,” Strausser asked again. “Which one is your favorite?” 

Charlotte shook her head, still oddly calm. “Mom, don’t.” But when Rachel shouted “No!” hysterically, Charlotte raised her voice. “Some things are more important than family!” She wouldn’t say that if she knew the full meaning of losing her family. Still, he couldn’t help begrudgingly admiring her fervor.

“Choose now!” Strausser commanded Rachel, and to Bass’s shock, Charlotte leaped up and towards the gun, shouting, “Pick me!” He stared at her. She was contradicting her previous words, volunteering her life to save her brother’s and also to keep her mother from doing something Charlotte saw as morally reprehensible. She was putting family first, and at the same time expecting Rachel not to. She was an enigma, this new, grown-up Charlotte, and he suddenly found himself wishing they’d met again under different circumstances. 

Strausser cocked his pistol. “All right. Have it your way.” 

This was going much farther than Bass had thought it would, and still all Rachel could say was, “No!” She wasn’t agreeing to build the amplifier. Maybe he’d overestimated her maternal instinct. Was not building the amplifier so important to her that she would actually sacrifice one of her children? 

Despite the fact that Charlotte was making the entire situation worse with her reckless bravery, Bass couldn’t take his eyes off her. Rachel was turning so hysterical she could hardly get a word out, while Charlotte was composed enough to utter a calm, “It’s okay,” while staring down the barrel of the gun. She had to be afraid, but she hid it well. Not a tremor betrayed her. Maybe her ideals were naively simplistic, but Bass didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more arresting than the sight of this beautiful young woman fearlessly staring death in the face. 

He heard the slightest click of Strausser’s finger on the trigger and felt an unexpected flicker of panic. They’d planned this ahead of time; Rachel was supposed to agree before it got to this point, and Strausser wasn’t supposed to actually pull the trigger, just use his well-earned reputation to make everyone think he was going to. If one of her children was dead, half of Bass’s leverage would be gone. Maybe he should have picked someone else for this job. Strausser was a bit of a loose cannon, and Bass wouldn’t be too surprised if he pulled the trigger anyway at this point. If he shot Charlotte…. 

But finally, at the last possible fraction of a second, Rachel broke. “Stop! Stop!” Bass tore his eyes away from Charlotte to look at Rachel. “I will finish your damn amplifier,” she added. “Stop.” 

Charlotte…rolled her eyes? That was her actual response to her mother saving her life? No visible relief, just frustration that all her efforts had been for nothing. She was strangely fascinating to him. 

Strausser lowered the gun, and Bass couldn’t resist getting another gibe in at Charlotte’s expense, trying once again to force her to reevaluate her worldview. “See? Just like Miles always said, a good hostage works every time.” 

She looked at him in irritation, and for a second he thought maybe she was frustrated because she’d seen through his ruse and Rachel hadn’t. Even so, she was wrong, since it had quickly escalated from a ruse to an actual death threat. Bass had made a dangerous gamble, and the stakes were Charlotte’s life. But she didn’t seem to feel it. There was still no trace of fear on her face, just determination. Maybe the problem was that she didn’t have a sense of her own mortality. Or maybe, just maybe, Charlotte’s strength of conviction was enough to carry her through anything, to keep her whole despite the brokenness of the world. He wasn’t sure; he only knew that he’d never seen anyone besides Miles look so alive when they were so close to death. He’d always wanted that kind of fearlessness for himself, craved it with the sort of greed he’d rarely felt about anything, but always, always it eluded him. And here was Charlotte, making it seem easy as breathing. 

Reluctantly, he pulled his eyes away from her again. Rachel had an amplifier to build, and she knew he meant business now. If he knew her, though, the point could bear some repeating, so he added a threat to his next instructions. “Take them back to the holding cell, and if she steps out of line, if she even breathes funny….” His eyes flickered back to Charlotte, but he avoided meeting her gaze, fearing what he might see there. “…Kill both the kids.” He’d kept his voice even, almost casual, but he darted a glance at Rachel to make sure she looked anguished enough to submit, and not just pretend to. He was fairly certain he’d succeeded. 

While _fairly certain_ had usually been good enough for Bass, it wasn’t good enough for General Monroe, so he left the room with quiet, confident authority, feeling the weight of three pairs of Matheson eyes resting all too heavily on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel weirdly guilty after spending so much time in Bass's head trying to work out how he rationalizes things. So I'd just like to point out that, while I love him dearly as a character, I'm well aware that he does some really awful things most the time and that he's the king of coming up with terrible excuses for his behavior.
> 
> Comments are always very much appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most dialogue in this chapter is taken from episode 1x19 of Revolution.

When he saw her again, she was a fuzzy image on a security monitor on the eleventh floor of the Tower, following closely behind Miles, and maybe miracles did exist.

He'd just been getting to the point of acceptance that he was going to die in this bunker with Rachel Matheson, which was probably near the top of his list of worst ways to die. Right behind burning alive, right ahead of being mauled by a bear. He was actually starting to wish she'd succeeded with the murder-suicide by grenade plan. Even that was sounding a lot better than being trapped in a small room with a stoic Rachel, who may or may not try to strangle him with her bare hands at any second, all while homicidal maniacs lurked around outside and the salvation of guns was within his sight but not within his reach. He didn't dare leave the room without a gun in his hands. They'd been ambushed by someone with weapons that did damage like he'd never seen before, and he assumed all his men who’d come with him into the Tower were dead. It was probably too much to hope that Randall was too. It was far more likely that they were Randall's people and the whole thing was a trap. He cursed himself for an idiot for ever believing a word the man said. 

He’d lost his only weapon in the massacre, so he’d seized the only chance he saw by following Rachel, who’d seemed to know where she was going. He managed to force the door open despite her attempts to shut him out, which he wasn’t at all surprised she’d tried to do. He was even less surprised when she attacked him with a pair of scissors, senses already on the alert for an attack from her the second he shut the door. He whipped an arm up to block her, then pinned her to the desk and tried to get some answers. Which were, in her typical fashion, completely unhelpful. She insisted she knew nothing about these people, didn’t know if they had anything to do with Randall, didn’t know how they’d known he was coming, didn’t know what they knew about the Tower’s capabilities. 

Rachel was currently less homicidal and more unnervingly calm, standing still as a statue in the middle of the room. Sometimes she shifted modes so quickly it made his head spin. And there was something equally unsettling about all of her modes. Apparently she’d decided stabbing him with scissors was unnecessary for now, probably because she was counting on him dying in some other gruesome fashion before too long. 

Nevertheless, he felt safe enough for the moment to turn his back to her and start tearing the room apart looking for guns. “How do we get out?” he asked. She didn’t know. “Are there any weapons around here?” She didn’t know.

He slammed a drawer shut angrily, hard enough to rattle the heavy oak desk, and shouted, “Really, you don’t know? You knew to run straight to this…this…uh, this bunker, whatever, but you don’t know anything?” He looked down, trying to rein his temper in, which was on a short fuse these days. He usually avoided resorting to yelling. It was counterproductive, and he’d found he could strike fear into people just as effectively with deadly calm. But her constant denials that she knew anything had set him off. If he had a gun for every time she’d said the words “I don’t know” to him over the years, he’d have enough to supply the entire Monroe militia. Probably the Georgia Federation too. 

He tried again, shifting tactics, thinking maybe he could reason with her. “Rachel, your only chance, our only chance is if we help each other.” 

Her expression never changed, no indication of what was going on behind it. “Why would I want that? I want you…to die.” 

“So much that you want to die too,” he challenged. 

“I haven’t made that clear?” 

Bass stared at her for a long moment. He was wrong; her expression had changed. The light behind her eyes was gone; they looked dull, lifeless. The expression was so familiar it pained him. He’d seen it in the mirror too many times to not recognize it. But he’d survived, because he’d still had something to live for. And so did Rachel. She had Charlotte. 

“You’re lying,” he said simply. “Now trust me, Rachel, I know something about this.” He had to make her see somehow, without telling his own story. She’d never relate to his agony from so many years ago, not when she blamed him for so many deaths. He remembered something he’d read once when he was dealing with his own suicidal thoughts, so he told her that, finishing with, “The last thought that goes through their mind is _I made a mistake_.” He’d always wondered if that thought would have run through his own mind if Miles hadn’t shown up at the cemetery and made him hand over the gun. He didn’t know the answer to that. He didn’t even know if he would have gone through with it. All these years he’d had to think about those things, and he still didn’t understand the darkness inside of him. Couldn’t even predict his own behavior. “So you’re telling me back in the tent with that grenade, you weren’t thinking the exact same thing?” Rachel didn’t need to respond. He knew he was right. “So how about we actually get out of here alive, then you can get back to trying to kill me.” 

It wasn’t an ideal truce, but it’d be better than none at all. Especially once he’d found the guns behind a sealed door that he was completely sure Rachel knew how to get past. 

Now, here he was trying to smash through the indestructible glass with a putter, of all things. He’d found it in the corner with a couple of golf balls and one of those fake grass putting green mats business men used to keep in their offices in an effort to trick their colleagues into thinking they were good at golf. He knew it was useless, but he kept doing it. The putter’s head was contorted at a strange angle now, and the glass didn’t have a scratch on it, but still he kept smashing it. Whenever he felt helpless, he always resorted to taking his frustration out physically. It’s why he always kept a punching bag in his room back in Philadelphia. 

The putter head finally fell off, clattering to the floor, and he stopped for a second to catch his breath. “What is this place anyway?” 

“VP bunker. Cheney used it. It was his undisclosed location.” 

Her answer was so forthcoming he was skeptical. “You serious?” She merely raised her eyebrows in response. 

He smacked the glass one more time, putting all his weight into it even though he knew it was pointless, then threw the useless putter shaft away from him, tired of playing the same old game with Rachel once again. “You know what I think? I think you know how to open this door.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I do.” Rachel had suddenly switched from evasiveness to honesty, and he was taken aback once more at her swift change. “You’re right about all of it. I don’t want to die. I want to see my daughter again.” 

He knew it. It all came down to Charlotte. She was what was keeping Rachel alive, and that was so clear to him now that he was surprised Rachel had even been able to trigger the grenade. She was probably torn up with guilt about that now. Charlotte had already lost most of her family; she didn’t need to lose her mother too. You didn’t just give up on family like that. Not while they were still breathing. Not when they still needed you. 

“So why don’t you help me?” He spoke slowly, distinctly, as though he was talking to a child. He immediately regretted that. Being rude to her was hardly going to sway her in his favor. 

“Because you killed Danny.” Suddenly, the emotions she always kept hidden broke through, and he could tell she was keeping tears at bay. “You murdered my son.” 

Bass flinched, feeling a little like she’d succeeded in stabbing him with those scissors. He had enough deaths to his name. He didn’t need that weight on him too. “Rachel, I wasn’t even there.”

“Don’t…you…dare…say that to me.” Every word was a struggle to get out, and Rachel Matheson was actually crying, which was a rare sight to see. Bass felt his own eyes stinging, and he couldn’t look at her anymore. “You have always made excuses, but you….” He looked at her again, even though it hurt, even though her accusing eyes cut him to the core. “Not about this. Not this.” 

He walked away to lean against a cabinet, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to rein in his feelings when they overwhelmed his thoughts. The Mathesons had once been the only family he had left. Now half of them were dead, and the other half blamed him for it. _And not without cause,_ he finally admitted to himself for the first time. He hadn’t pulled the trigger on Danny or on Ben, but those who had were under his command. He was responsible for the actions of his men. He’d always known that, but sometimes he tried to forget it when the burden of it weighed too heavily on him. He’d never wanted to be a leader of men, that was all Miles, but he’d followed his brother into it and he’d kept at it even when it was difficult, even when it was messy and bloody and unethical by the standards of the old world. He kept moving steadily along like a train engine on a never-ending set of tracks, even when Miles tried to kill him then abandoned him to hold the Republic together by himself. It was difficult, far too difficult for him to do alone, but he couldn’t let anyone know that or it would all come crashing to pieces around him. So he had to be brutal, and he had to be cruel, and he had to be decisive, and in doing so he’d alienated or killed the few remaining people left who’d loved him. 

He felt so angry, angry and sorry and helpless, that suddenly he snapped, shoving everything on the cabinet to the floor in one swift motion. That didn’t make him feel any better. He didn’t think he could express aloud all these emotions he’d kept bottled up inside for years, but he found himself talking, the words spilling out and he couldn’t stop them anymore. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I don’t know how this got so out of control.” It was the absolute truth. He’d never admitted it to anyone, not even Miles, even though he’d known it was true for years, even before Miles tried to kill him the first time. He was well aware his words would fall on Rachel’s ears as just another excuse. No one was ever interested in hearing his explanations. He’d resigned himself to that. But lately, a tiny spark of hope had ignited inside him when he remembered there was someone out there who might still be able to find it in himself to love him. “I have a son.” He didn’t know why he’d said it, but it was too late to take it back.

“What?” 

“I don’t know where he is, I’ve been looking for him.” A nearly impossible task, but he was determined to try. He owed Emma that, he owed himself that, and most of all, he owed his son that. “And it makes you wonder, if he saw me, if he knew all the things that I’ve done, what would he think of me?” Rachel looked like she was in physical pain at his words, and he realized belatedly that they must be the exact same thing Rachel had often thought about her own son. He wanted to say something to fix it. “You’re right, Rachel. I’m sorry. No more…excuses.” The next part was harder to say out loud, even though he’d already admitted it to himself, but he forced himself to say it anyway. “I know exactly how much blood is on my hands, Rachel.” 

His words had little effect on her, but he hadn’t expected them to. She still looked half-dead with grief. He wasn’t asking for her forgiveness. Some things were beyond forgiveness, he knew that. He was closing in on two decades without his family and he still had vivid dreams of the man who’d killed them, of strangling him with his own bare hands. He supposed Rachel had more restraint than he’d given her credit for, and if they were both going to die here, at least she’d listened to his last, his only, confession.

Then, miraculously, they saw Charlotte and Miles on the security monitor, and Bass didn’t know what they were doing there, but his instincts instantly kicked back into urgent survival mode. He seized his chance before it could slip away. “Unlock the guns, Rachel. No matter what I’ve done to you before, I don’t want to let another one of your kids get hurt. I will help you.” 

She stared at him levelly. “You’re lying.” 

His already thin patience snapped. “Oh, you want to kill me so bad, you’re gonna let Charlie die?” He used the nickname because it’s the one Rachel had breathed disbelievingly mere moments before. He used it like this was a verbal boxing match and the word _Charlie_ was her weak spot. 

It had the intended effect, but still she hesitated. “What about Miles?” 

It was far too late for anything but honesty at this point. “No promises, but I will save Charlie, I swear.” She was still searching his eyes, looking for something. “Open it,” he breathed hopefully. She was still glancing between him and the security monitors. He was getting desperate. If they didn’t act quickly, Charlotte would probably be shot, then Rachel would really have nothing left to live for, and he didn’t want to follow that train of thought any farther. “Rachel, you need to open it _now_. Those guys are still out there, and she’s going to get ambushed if we don’t hurry.” 

She looked nearly as anguished as the time Strausser had a gun pointed at Charlotte. But they both knew she was out of options. When she spoke, her voice was like ice. “Fine. I’ll open it. You help me get to Charlie, and then you _leave_. We won’t follow you, and you won’t follow us. If you try…I _will_ kill you.” 

Bass felt the corners of his lips turn up in a mockery of a smile. “Deal.” 

Galvanized into action, Rachel was as opposite from her usual statue-stillness as a person could be. She moved so quickly he didn’t even see how she’d uncovered a hidden keypad on the wall, and she was punching in a sequence of numbers so dizzying that he didn’t understand how she still had them memorized after all these years. The door swung open, and she’d snatched two guns before he could even move a step forward. He felt a flicker of fear that she might just shoot him and go save Charlotte by herself, but she was already shoving one of the guns into his hands and studying the security monitors again to figure out where her daughter was. Bass contemplated taking a second gun, just in case, but they didn’t have straps on them and he couldn’t afford to be the least bit encumbered once they left this room. 

She unsealed the door to the room, opening it as quietly as possible, and gestured to him to go first. He smirked. “Allow me,” he whispered sardonically. “Always the gentleman.” She glared daggers at him. He took a deep breath, finger on the trigger, then lowered the gun, checking quickly down both sides of the hallway. “Clear.” 

She followed him out the door, and they fell into a pattern with the easy grace of a pair of dancers. He wordlessly followed her lead on which direction to take, keeping their backs to each other as they twisted and turned down the labyrinthine hallways, always ready for an enemy to pop around the corner, whispering “Clear” to each other over and over again. The place was oddly silent. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

The hallway they were currently in ended in a large room full of tubes and piping and some machines that vaguely looked like generators. They’d need to alter their mode of operation to get through it. He glanced at Rachel. She jerked her head towards the open space, indicating once more that he should go first. He grimaced. Always distrusting, that one. He launched himself across the open space, then crouched behind the nearest cover he could find. No gunfire followed him. He twisted back towards the hallway to meet Rachel’s wide blue eyes. She looked like she’d expected someone in the room to shoot at them. Maybe she was even a little afraid; she wasn’t combat-trained, after all. He gestured the other direction with the barrel of his gun, indicating that she should follow his path, then he took off for the next cover without checking to see if she did. 

When he was halfway across the room, he thought he might recognize where he was from the security cameras. Just as the thought flicked through his mind, the now-familiar explosive gunshot noises echoed from somewhere up ahead. From where Miles and Charlotte were. He was about to break cover and head for the doorway he saw up ahead when a man appeared from behind a turbine not twenty feet away from him and stalked towards the doorway purposefully. Bass plastered himself against the generator he was standing behind, not wanting to draw attention from the other hostiles who were obviously around by shooting the man. He decided to follow him instead, forgetting once more to check where Rachel was as he slipped after the man silently.

The next room was filled with metal shelving, which gave him a better view but was useless for hiding behind so he straightened up and raised his gun slightly, still tailing the man. A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he thought he saw Nora Clayton disappear behind a concrete column. Miles was probably with her. With effort, he stopped himself from veering in that direction. He needed to take out his man first. 

And he glanced back at him just in time, because the man had taken off running like he’d seen something. Bass had the trigger half-pulled when the man reached the end of the shelving and turned to the right, out of view for the moment. Bass cursed inwardly and took off running after him, determined to get a clear shot before the man could shoot whoever he’d sighted.

Too late. The man fired, and Bass heard a huge metal clang as a shelf collapsed. On top of Charlotte apparently, because he heard a woman’s voice cry out as it fell, and a man’s voice he didn’t recognize shout “Charlie!” He burst around the corner, already firing his gun at the man’s back, and he exploded in a shower of red. The recoil was harder than he’d expected, but he kept his feet steady like only a man who’d spent his whole life firing guns could. It was also emitting some strange vapory smoke that obscured his vision for a second. When it started to clear, he saw Charlotte buried under debris, staring up at him in disbelief. He lowered the gun so she’d know he wasn’t going to aim at her next, then walked towards her slowly, taking a minute to savor the priceless expression on her face. 

“Hello, Charlotte,” he said, stopping in front of her. She just stared at him. He probably shouldn’t find her reaction humorous, but he did. He’d just saved her life. The least she could do was say something. “A thank you would be nice.” Not that he expected one. 

And all she did was start trying to push the shelf off her, probably so she could launch herself at him the moment she was loose, despite the fact that he had a gun and she didn’t. Bass finally heard Rachel coming up behind him, and their eyes met briefly as she walked past. He knew what it meant. _Time to leave_. She moved to help get the shelf off Charlotte, who said “Mom?” in the exact same tone of voice she’d used when he told her Rachel had stabbed someone with a screwdriver. He turned to go, thinking everyone would probably be better off if he’d disappeared before Charlotte was free. Besides, he had somewhere to be. 

As he slipped through the shelves towards where he’d seen Nora disappear minutes before, he heard Rachel shout “No!” followed by Charlotte shouting, “Where did Monroe go?” Then, even louder, “What am I doing here, what the hell are you doing with him?” He stifled a grim smile. Charlotte was already getting quite predictable. If she kept yelling like that, she was going to bring more guns down on them in short order, and he’d saved her life for nothing. He stopped for a second by the concrete column, listening to make sure Rachel would keep her part of the bargain. From the sounds of it, she was physically dragging Charlotte away. Good. Two less Mathesons to worry about. 

He took off as fast as he dared while still keeping his senses on the alert and gun at the ready the way Nora had gone, the way he knew in his bones Miles had gone. He didn’t even know what he was going to do once he found him. Hold him at gunpoint, demand explanations from him? The logical part of him knew that was a ridiculous thing to do with hostile Tower inhabitants ready to shoot them on sight, but to hell with logic. He wanted answers, and he was going to get them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kind of a beast to write for some reason, and it ended up way longer than I expected it to be. It also kind of accidentally turned into one long psychological analysis of Bass (totally fine with me because his mind is a fascinating place), since there wasn't much actual interaction with Charlie in this episode. I promise that will be amended in the next chapter. :)
> 
> As always, reviews are splendid!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue you recognize in this chapter is taken from episode 2x02 of Revolution. The rest is from my crazy head.

He was tied to a ladder in an abandoned swimming pool and it was probably worse than prize fighting in New Vegas, but he couldn't even summon enough emotion to care, when suddenly he heard a bang and a little shriek and Charlotte Matheson fell heavily to the concrete bottom of the pool. 

He’d fallen into a routine in New Vegas. Maybe it was a pathetic existence, but the daily repetition might have been what kept him sane after what happened in the Tower. After he wandered the wilderness of the Plains Nation for a few weeks and stumbled into a town only to find out that a nuke had reduced Philadelphia to nothing. After that, New Vegas felt like a relief. It allowed him to move through each day in a sort of numb haze, similar to how he would sink to the bottom of the community pool when he was a boy and try to walk on the bottom, water dragging at his limbs in resistance so that his whole body was in slow motion. He ate twice a day, three times on days he could afford it. He slept with a woman occasionally, never the same one so things wouldn’t get messy. He fought in the evening, and he always won. He gambled. Then he went back to the solitude of his trailer, which he could never call _home_ because it wasn’t and never would be, and he tried and mostly failed to sleep. Through it all, he drank. He probably could have eaten more if he hadn’t gambled most his diamonds away nightly and used nearly all the remaining ones on alcohol. But he found he didn’t enjoy food like he used to. Eating became merely instinctual. He’d wished sleeping would be instinctual too, but it wasn’t. He didn’t know the last time he’d had a truly peaceful, dreamless sleep. He’d never believed in ghosts, but now they haunted his sleeping hours. He’d wake up regularly in a horrified, cold sweat. He’d quickly given up on trying to go back to bed on nights like those. Instead, he went for a run, did endless push-ups, pull-ups, whatever physical activity that would serve to keep his mind blissfully blank. As a consequence, he was in the best shape of his life. Even better than when he was a Marine. His younger self would have laughed to hear that. His face didn’t look so great though. Fortunately, there weren’t a lot of mirrors around. Lack of sleep had turned the skin under his eyes a permanent bruise color, as though he’d been punched there too many times. Ironic, since none of the men he’d fought in New Vegas had ever managed to actually punch him there. Sometimes they caught his jaw, but that was about the best they could manage. 

The fighting kept him in booze, but that wasn’t the only reason he did it. It was the only time he felt alive anymore. Every nerve ending alight. Every sense on the alert. Even the pain of a fist in the gut. Maybe he’d only ever truly felt alive while fighting. Maybe he’d sat behind a desk for too long and had forgotten that. 

None of that mattered now anyway. He’d been captured by bounty hunters and New Vegas was far behind him. He should have been more wary, but they’d been pretty smart to use the “woman wants to see you” trick. They must have been watching him for a while, hired a woman to make the whole thing more convincing. It had seemed like business as usual. The women in New Vegas fell all over Jimmy King for some reason. Must have been some primal instinct from watching him beat other men half to death. The only difference was that when he said he was tired, he’d always stuck to that before and refused to see her. It was the “Trust me, you’re going to want to see this one” that had caused a flicker of curiosity, and like an idiot, he’d fallen right into their trap. 

He hadn’t even bothered asking the bounty hunters who they were going to sell him to. It didn’t really matter. He probably couldn’t think of a single person on the continent who didn’t want Sebastian Monroe dead at this point. He assumed the Monroe Republic might blame him for the nukes. He knew Georgia would. Maybe it was Neville. Maybe it was someone else. He just didn’t care. 

They were an odd pair. He called them Eyepatch and Pretty Boy in his head. Pretty Boy seemed to be in charge, which was weird, but might be useful since he seemed like a bit of a pushover. Eyepatch had looked like he might be a problem at first, but he spoke mostly Russian and kept a Penthouse magazine closer to him than he did his gun, so Bass just couldn’t take him seriously as a threat. From their conversations, their destination sounded pretty far away, so Bass thought he’d stick around for a little while, lull them into a sense of complacency, before making his escape. 

They’d thrown him in the back of their horse-drawn trailer and driven for half the night. They’d blindfolded him for a while too, so he wasn’t entirely sure which direction they’d taken. It wasn’t hard to guess though. Where else but east? When they stopped, Eyepatch had escorted him straight into the empty pool, their boots crunching over the broken plaster. He’d tossed the rope up to Pretty Boy, who fastened him to the ladder, not leaving enough slack for Bass to sit down. Well, he wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, nightmares or not. 

He looked Eyepatch in his one good eye and said hoarsely, “Cozy. You gonna make me sleep standing up?” 

Eyepatch muttered something darkly in Russian. Bass thought maybe he should scrap his original plan and try to escape tonight. “Can I at least have some water?” 

Eyepatch walked away without answering him, but Pretty Boy appeared a few minutes later with a bottle, tilting it up carefully against Bass’s lips so none of it would spill. He eyed the gun shoved through his belt, but he was standing just out of reaching distance, and besides, Bass’s hands were tied behind his back so a gun was useless. A knife would’ve been better, but he didn’t see one.

After that, neither of them came back down. He slumped against the side of the pool, trying to get as comfortable as he could, and observed his surroundings while trying to appear exhausted and bored in case either of the bounty hunters checked on him. There was quite a bit of debris cluttering the bottom of the pool, plenty of it sharp enough to cut his bonds, but it was all out of reach, even of his feet. Then he noticed the tile squares lining the sides of the pool about two-thirds of the way down, half of them missing from the wall. If there were any behind him, they’d be close to his hand height. He slumped down even more and leaned back against the wall again, pressing his hands into it. They were met with cool, smooth tile instead of the usual rough pool surface. His fingers fumbled all around the edge of it, searching for a loose corner. No luck. It wasn’t going to come off easily, but there was a hairline fracture near one corner and he thought he could possibly pick that corner loose in the hours before they’d be on their way again. It should be sharp enough to cut him free. He wouldn’t worry about escaping tonight, only about getting the piece of tile. He could hide it in his hands and wait for an opportune moment to escape later. 

He’d only been picking at it for what he estimated was about half an hour when he felt it loosen slightly. His fingers were aching and bleeding, but he was eager to keep picking at it, feeling like the end was in sight. He took a deep breath and forced himself to stop and think for a minute. If he got it loose now, he’d need to hold it the rest of the night. He really should try to sleep a little, and he might drop his only means of escape while he was unconscious. Patience had never been his strong suit, but now was as good a time to work on that as any. He sighed and rested his head against the cold rusted metal of the ladder, closing his eyes and suddenly realizing how exhausted he was. He’d had worse pillows. 

He must have fallen asleep, because the bang of a gun startled him awake, followed by a muffled female shriek and a body falling into the pool. He whipped his head to the right in time to see it falling, wincing a little at the noise it made when it landed. It was a woman, all right. He wondered where they’d shot her, and if she was dead. He heard Pretty Boy swearing softly under his breath above him, so Bass tilted his head back to look up at him. It wasn’t the best angle or lighting, but he thought the guy looked a little peeved. At the woman or himself, Bass wasn’t sure. 

He grinned up at him. “No bounty for that one, I guess.” 

Pretty Boy scowled. “Shut up.” 

“Or maybe she was your competition. Too bad she didn’t find me first.” 

Pretty Boy crouched down to make sure his rope was fastened tightly to the ladder, then he disappeared from sight. Bass thought he was coming down to check on the woman, but when he didn’t reappear in a couple of seconds, he realized Eyepatch had been conspicuously absent. Maybe the mystery woman had taken him out. He turned to study her. She’d landed on her back, probably hit her head pretty hard. She was either unconscious or dead, because she wasn’t moving. The gun that had fallen with her was laying a few feet from her hand. Her slim legs were bent at the knee, tucked to the side. Under her jacket, her shirt had ridden up a little to reveal a glimpse of sun-golden skin. Her long dirty-blonde hair was covering all of her face except her chin and a full bottom lip. Bass swallowed hard. He must have been around prostitutes caked in makeup for too long, because he was weirdly attracted to this woman and he couldn’t even see her face. Her hair looked like she hadn’t washed it in weeks and her clothing was grubby and she looked like a fighter. He ran his eyes appreciatively over her body once more, feeling like a little bit of a creep since she was unconscious. Or dead. 

Wait. That hair. It looked vaguely familiar. It was unusual for a woman like that to have such long hair, and even more unusual that she left it down. His eyes snapped back up to her exposed chin, and there was a strange, twisting feeling in his stomach. It couldn’t be. 

He was distracted by the sound of Pretty Boy grunting like he was carrying something heavy. A few minutes later, he walked down into the pool, looking at the woman warily. 

“Did you kill her?” Bass asked, trying hard to sound nonchalant, like he was asking about the weather. He asked before he saw her face because he might not be able to trust his voice after. 

Pretty Boy shot him a dirty look as he knelt next to her. “Of course not. It was just rock salt.” He bent over her as he brushed her hair out of her face, obscuring Bass’s view. 

“Unless she cracked her head open in the fall,” Bass goaded, satisfied that his voice sounded a lot steadier that time. 

Pretty Boy sat her up, her body slumping forward over his arm as he checked the back of her head. Bass still couldn’t see her face. “She’s going to have a nasty headache when she wakes up,” he muttered half to himself when his examination was over. His sigh sounded relieved as he laid her back down, picked up her gun, and left the pool again. 

The knot in Bass’s stomach had eased at the other man’s words, and he finally trusted himself to check her face. _Charlotte_. His eyes flicked down to her chest, which he could now see was moving up and down infinitesimally, and he let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. He looked at her face again. It shouldn’t be familiar to him, but it was, every angle, every curve. It was like home, and he swore it was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in months. 

Then the questions flooded into his head. What was she doing here? Where was Miles? Was he here too? Were they coming after him? The last time he’d seen Miles, he’d set him free and told him they were still brothers, even though he hated the fact. The last words he’d said to him were “Run, Bass.” And Bass had run, because Miles hadn’t given him a choice. His head had still been reeling from the fact that his men had betrayed him for Neville. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have insisted on going with Miles, helping him get back into the Tower because that’s where he must have been headed. Charlotte and Rachel were still in there. But he’d been too panicked to do anything other than run when Miles started yelling that Monroe was escaping. In the moment, he hadn’t understood why Miles had bothered to set him free only to turn around and make it more difficult for him to escape seconds later. Afterwards, he’d realized Miles was using him as a distraction to get the militia away from the Tower. In his darker moments, he still wondered if that was the actual reason Miles had let him go, and not because he still felt any lingering attachment to him. 

After all that, he couldn’t imagine Miles chasing him hundreds of miles months later, for what? Obviously nothing good. And besides, if Miles was here, why had Charlotte been captured? He couldn’t imagine him being willing to use his niece as some sort of bait. Bait wouldn’t have been necessary anyway. There were only two bounty hunters. Miles could take both of them out without batting an eye. Judging by Eyepatch’s silence, Charlotte had tried to take them out one at a time. Which left only one option. Charlotte was here alone, as unlikely as that seemed. 

His eyes landed on her still face again, searching it as if he would find answers there. _What the hell are you doing wandering around the Plains Nation by yourself, Charlotte?_ And more importantly, how had she managed to find him? It was obviously no accident. _Of all the abandoned pools, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine_ , he thought sarcastically. She wasn’t here to free him. Just a guess. He released a little breath of air that would never have passed for a laugh in the old days. Maybe she’d taken up a job as a bounty hunter. Bass felt the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement as his guesses became increasingly more ridiculous. Maybe she had a message from Miles. Maybe Miles was in trouble and she needed his help. Maybe she was here to assassinate him. 

He sobered after that last one, remembering Rachel and the grenade. He might not be General Monroe anymore, and maybe there wasn’t even a Monroe Republic anymore, but some people would never forget the things he’d done. He’d tried to run from himself, he’d tried to become Jimmy King, he’d _burned his militia tattoo off his own arm_. None of it was enough. He should have known he couldn’t just disappear, would never be able to just disappear. There would always be someone who wanted him dead, and it was beginning to seem like there would also always be a Matheson somewhere nearby reminding him of all the harm he’d done their family. His family. 

Bass watched impassively as Pretty Boy came back with a length of rope and began tying Charlotte’s wrists together. He scooped her up over his shoulder to move her to a wall. His fingers were wrapped around her thighs a little unnecessarily high. He leaned her against the wall to work on the knots some more, bending his head in concentration. Bass saw his eyes straying though. Charlotte’s shirt had been tugged down a little when he’d moved her, and there was now an ample amount of cleavage on display. Bass swallowed hard. He didn’t like how Pretty Boy was looking at her one bit. He hadn’t been too worried about what they were going to do to her, but now he thought perhaps he should have been. He seemed a decent enough guy, for a bounty hunter, but the combination of no law enforcement and an immobilized female body was often enough to change that. 

Pretty Boy must have felt the intensity of his gaze, because he looked up at him. Bass kept his face carefully blank. “Got a problem?” Pretty Boy snapped. Bass just raised his eyebrows and said nothing. He returned to his work, seeming more in a hurry to finish it, then slumped Charlotte carefully against the wall. He shot Bass a disgusted look on his way out of the pool, almost like he knew what he’d been thinking. 

Bass turned his attention back to Charlotte. He had so many questions for her, but he doubted she was going to be very amenable to answering them when she woke up. He’d have to work around that somehow. Her presence here changed everything. He was anxious for her to regain consciousness, brimming with more purpose than he’d felt since everything had gone wrong at the Tower six months before. It didn’t look like that would be happening anytime soon though. Her chin was slumped forward towards her chest, hair draped in front of her face, stirring softly with each exhale. He forced himself to relax again, tilting his head back and attempting to doze a little more. 

He slept on and off until the pitch-black of the sky began turning an early-morning shade of gray. He felt as well-rested as possible after spending all night standing up, so he kept busy by working on the loose tile again and watching Charlotte, who’d begun to twitch in her sleep and seemed close to waking up. When she finally did, her head jerked up, senses on immediate alert. She noticed the ropes binding her and began tugging uselessly to free herself. 

What she didn’t notice was him. “Rise and shine,” he said dryly. Her head whipped around and startled blue eyes met his, like she’d forgotten he’d be tied up next to her. He blinked slowly, keeping his face blank, wondering what her immediate reaction would be. The signature Matheson glare, just as he’d suspected, accompanied by more attempts to free her hands. 

Her struggles must have alerted Pretty Boy that she was awake, because he was walking into the pool carrying a jar of something. “All right, listen up,” he said to Charlotte, who transferred her glare to him without batting an eye. “I’m going to patch you up. But if you try anything cute, you’ll get a lot more than a blast of rock salt this time.” 

Eyepatch started saying something incoherent, probably upset over whatever Charlotte had done to him. “That’s my partner. Got a million dollar smile, doesn’t he?” Pretty Boy was really into small talk, when his captive was a pretty girl. All he ever told Bass was to shut up. He reached towards Charlotte’s shoulder awkwardly, careful to keep his eyes on appropriate places now that she was awake. He brushed her hair back over her shoulder and started pulling her jacket sleeve down, and Bass didn’t like how intimate it looked. Charlotte had remained stoic until now, but she couldn’t keep in a pained gasp as Pretty Boy peeled her jacket away from the dried blood that had formed on her wounds. Bass looked away, jaw clenching instinctively. 

“How’d you find Monroe?” he asked curiously, and Bass’s eyes snapped back up in interest. Maybe Pretty Boy wasn’t such an idiot; he had the same question at the top of his list. “Yeah, yeah, I know who he really is.” He dabbled medicine on Charlotte’s wounds. “Well? Don’t talk my ear off.” Charlotte had an impressive death stare; she might not look much like Miles physically, but the expression she was currently wearing was all him. 

“I get why you want to kill the asshat,” Pretty Boy was saying. Bass didn’t even blink at the insult. “But get in line, everybody does. The guy who dropped the bombs.”

He blinked at that. He’d overheard a few people blaming him in New Vegas, but he’d said nothing because he was desperately trying not to blow his cover. But now his cover was blown, so it didn’t even matter. “Yeah, that’s right, I dropped them,” he said, bitterness lacing his voice.

“Just cram it, douche.” Bass fell silent. This guy really needed to come up with some more creative insults. “Well we’ve been tracking him for months, so I can’t let you screw it up now.” That was a revelation. Stupid of him to stay in one place for so long, he realized. They’d never have found him if he kept on the move. 

Charlotte broke her silence for the first time, voice husky with disuse. “So what are you going to do?” 

Pretty Boy flashed his impossibly white teeth. “She talks.” Okay, now he was being flirty. Bass rolled his eyes. “With you? Still debating. Depends on how pleasant you are.” 

Charlotte smiled slightly. “I meant with Monroe.” Well, now she was asking Pretty Boy the questions he wanted to know. If he just stayed silent and let these two play question and answer in front of him, he might just find out everything he needed to know. 

“We’re taking him to our employers.” _Like hell, you are._  

“You’re bounty hunters.” _Very observant, Charlotte._ “For who?” 

“At the moment, U.S. Government.” 

Bass went from paying half-interested attention to the proceedings to mind running a mile a minute, trying to process the information he’d just heard. It was impossible. There was no U.S. Government. The rebels had fought in the name of the United States, but even they hadn’t had the audacity to call themselves the U.S. Government. Where had it been the last sixteen years and why had it materialized suddenly in the last few months? 

Charlotte seemed just as confused. “What U.S. Government?” she asked, just as Bass blurted out impulsively, “What the hell you talking about?” 

“You’ll find out soon enough, pal.” That didn’t sound ominous at all. Bass’s mind was still in overdrive, but making sense of what was happening was like trying to put together a puzzle when you didn’t know what it was supposed to look like and you were only being given one piece at a time. So far he had two pieces: someone calling themselves the U.S. Government wanted him, and they were trying to blame him for nuking Philly and Atlanta. 

“All right, whatever, whoever they are,” Charlotte was saying. “Just put a bullet in his brain, hand him in dead.” Well there was a piece for the Charlotte puzzle. Apparently his most ridiculous guess was true; she was here to kill him. 

“They want him alive. They’ve been very clear on the subject.” 

Charlotte looked unimpressed. “Well then you’re even dumber than you look. Which, believe me, makes you seriously dumb.” She was smiling scathingly, but Pretty Boy looked delighted, like he thought this was turning into flirty banter. Bass, on the other hand, knew where she was really going with it. “He’ll escape, and slit your throat, and then you won’t have jack squat.” That wasn’t technically his _exact_ plan, but it was uncomfortably close. His fingers moved instinctively to the tile to make sure it was still lodged in the wall. 

It was _almost_ worth it to see how irritated Pretty Boy looked at her words. He jammed a cloth into her jacket sleeve, causing her to grunt in pain again, then he said shortly, “I liked you better when you weren’t talking.” 

Bass didn’t watch him leave; he kept his eyes on Charlotte. There was something different about her, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It had only been six months since he’d seen her, but she seemed older. Harder. Colder. He didn’t know exactly what had transpired in the Tower, but he was guessing that, and the results of it, would be more than enough to do it. He’d been so busy wallowing in misery and self-loathing these past few months that he’d never stopped to think someone else might have been experiencing the same thing. Maybe that was what had driven her away from Miles and Rachel. She probably blamed Rachel for what happened. Rachel and him. So she’d run away from one and set out to kill the other. 

He still had unanswered questions, and he knew it was going to be difficult getting anything out of her. But he needed to. Half-formulated plans were whirling around in his brain, nebulous and unclear. He’d suspected all these months that Randall had dropped the nukes. More than suspected. The weight of it had been slowly crushing him ever since. But he’d thought the man had acted alone, or as the leader of a small group. He’d never suspected anything like this, but Pretty Boy had unintentionally brought Bass’s blurry picture of events into sharp focus. Randall was just a pawn, acting under the orders of this so-called U.S. Government. It was a win-win situation for them. Take out the two most powerful cities on the East Coast, disable the Monroe Republic and the Georgia Federation in one fell swoop. Then they were free to come sweeping in, looking like the heroes, with no organized army east of the Mississippi to oppose them. Bass had to give them credit for something: it was tactically brilliant. _And I’m the icing on the cake_ , he thought grimly. They’d need someone to blame for the nukes; the people would be calling for blood. They’d need a scapegoat quickly before anyone could start casting suspicion on them, and he was the perfect candidate. General Monroe, conveniently gone from Philadelphia when the bomb hit, known to have been experimenting with turning the power back on. If anyone was rational, they might question what possible motive he’d have to bomb his own city, but he doubted anyone was feeling rational at this point. It didn’t help his case that he’d been developing a reputation towards the end for being…unhinged. His men had tried to hide the rumors from him, but not altogether effectively. Bass wasn’t under any delusions that his people would feel a sense of loyalty to him. 

That this supposed U.S. Government was so insistent upon the bounty hunters bringing him in alive sent an unfamiliar prickle of fear up his spine. His public execution was their obvious endgame. But he couldn’t stifle the creeping sensation that there was more to it than that. And he didn’t intend to find out what it was by experience. He needed to escape, and then he needed to disappear, and he needed to do it more quickly than he’d originally planned. 

His escape needed to wait until they were back on the road, though, and if he was going to be tied up near Charlotte for any length of time, he might as well make an attempt at conversation. The sun had come up while he’d been mulling all these things over, and she’d been staring straight ahead of her with a stony expression on her face the whole time. He heard Pretty Boy and Eyepatch muttering to each other and the sporadic clink of tools as they worked on fixing something, so now was as good a time as any if he didn’t want them to overhear anything. 

“So where are they?” he asked, trying for a conversational tone, wondering if she might just pretend she couldn’t hear him. But she turned towards him, face impassive. She looked unnervingly like Rachel when she did that. “Miles and your mom. What happened, you have some kind of…falling out?” Silence. He’d expected that. He smiled slightly. “I get it. I’m not really the one you want to open up to, right?” _That’s a joke, Charlotte. Understatement of the century._ He thought it might get some reaction. A sneer, a snort, something. She just looked straight ahead of her again. 

He sobered, looking down and steeling himself to ask the most vital thing, the one he needed to say out loud so he could face the ghosts that haunted him every night instead of running away from them. “Just answer me one question. You were there the night….” His voice caught for a moment, but he forced himself to continue. “…That the bombs dropped. In the Tower. Right?” Her chin dipped just so slightly it was nearly imperceptible. A casual observer wouldn’t have understood it to be a nod, but he did. He was so absurdly grateful for that tiny concession that he rushed ahead with his real question, eyes intent on her face so he wouldn’t miss the slightest fluctuation. “Randall pushed the button, didn’t he?”

She turned to look at him again, and it was the same expression Rachel had worn when they were trapped in the bunker together. Weary and anguished and accusing, and most unsettlingly, blank. There was his answer. His eyes stung, and he tried to blink it away. “I knew it.” He didn’t feel any different now that he knew for sure. The weight was still crushing him, no lighter or heavier than before, and he suspected he was just going to have to learn to live with it. “I walked him through the front door,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “Might as well have pushed the button myself.” 

And Charlotte chose that moment to snort, as inappropriate as it was. A bitter smile flashed across her face. “Right. I’m sure you’re just torn up with guilt.” 

That stung. He knew she had a low opinion of him, knew that she had reason to, knew that she wanted him dead. And all those things didn’t bother him much. But this, this was too much. He was angry at the implication that he was incapable of feeling remorse for the part he’d played in the destruction of an entire city and all its inhabitants. His city. 

His anger had no energy behind it anymore, though. Hadn’t for a long time. Instead he just looked at her sadly, wearily. “You don’t know me, Charlotte.” 

She looked at him defiantly, as if daring him to elaborate. He didn’t know why he did, why he was sharing any of his remorse with her when she was clearly so disdainful of it. She was always so smugly righteous about everything, when she couldn’t even begin to understand the responsibilities he’d had as General Monroe. He just wanted to wipe that infuriating expression off her face. “A lot of people depended on me to protect them. What did they get for it—cooked in their own skin.” 

“Well. Did it ever occur to you you sucked at your job?” 

He felt a dangerous smile twitch in the corner of his mouth. She’d gone too far this time. “You know, maybe Miles has the right to talk to me like that. Maybe. You? You don’t. So watch your mouth.” 

She rolled her head towards him, a brittle, mocking smile on her face. “You don’t get to tell anybody anything. You’re nothing.” 

He was taken aback at that. The girl had guts, he’d give her that. He’d almost admire her nerve if she wasn’t using it to try to twist a metaphorical dagger into his stomach. “Just a drunk fighting for coin in a whorehouse,” she added, trying to twist it even further. “And if you won’t put yourself out of your misery, I’d be happy to do it for you.” 

He didn’t like this new version of Charlotte. Charlotte 2.0. He’d respected her before, admired her even, from the moment she’d faced down Strausser’s gun. Despite the dire circumstances, she’d been innocent and passionate and bursting with the urgency of life. Charlotte 2.0 was jaded and cynical, using words with the sharp precision of weapons. Worst of all, there was no life left behind her eyes. Not even anger, not the slightest bit of emotion. They were just empty. She was smiling, but it was a bitter mockery of the beautiful, brilliant smile he knew she’d once been capable of. She’d turned into a young version of Rachel in the last six months, and he was partially responsible. For some reason he didn’t want to examine any further, that hurt almost as much as the words she’d just spoken. 

They eyed each other levelly for a while. He could see she was itching to fight him, the tension of the urge thrumming through her body. If she wasn’t tied up, she’d be on him, weapons or not, trying to beat him bloody. It was killing her that she couldn’t, so she was attacking him with words instead. If she only knew how much she was turning into her mother. She’d hate that. She’d maybe hate that even more than she hated him. He laughed at the thought, a bitter smile of his own lancing across his face. For a moment they just smiled at each other, a wary circling, checking for weak spots in the other’s defenses before lunging in for the kill. 

Except he’d already found her weak spot. He cut his chuckling short. “Oh, kid. You know, you might be trying to run away from your mom….” Her smile immediately disappeared at the word. That was the first stab. Now for the last. “…But you are a hell of a lot like her.” 

She struggled valiantly to keep her face expressionless, but he noticed her eyes narrow the tiniest bit. It was a small concession, but he knew he’d hurt her. She clamped her lips tightly together and resumed staring straight ahead, apparently unwilling to look at him anymore. 

Hurting her didn’t feel as satisfying as he’d thought it would. He resumed picking at the loose tile, the sharp, shooting pain it sent up his fingers a welcome distraction. He was desperately in need of one. The bounty hunters didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. He’d assumed they’d be on their way again once the sun rose, but it was already well overhead. Maybe they preferred traveling at night. If so, he had a long, unpleasant day ahead of him. He tried to settle his eyes anywhere but on Charlotte. He tipped his head back against the wall and watched the clouds scuttle across the sky and the occasional bird flit past. He stared at the bottom of the pool until he’d memorized every last bit of debris that cluttered it. He counted the few remaining tiles on the opposite wall. He mentally ran through his escape plan, over and over, analyzing all the possible ways it could go wrong and how he would alter it from there.

Pretty Boy came down a couple of times to give them water throughout the day, but not often enough to keep either of them comfortable. The sun beat straight down on them during the hottest part of the day, and there was no shade to offer relief. Bass’s shirt was drenched, and he imagined Charlotte was even more miserable than him in her jacket, but she wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of admitting it out loud. She’d even tried to refuse the water, until Pretty Boy told her not to be an idiot. She’d given him another death glare, but accepted it anyway, her body seeming to rebel against her will. She’d eaten some food too, indignant as she was over being spoon fed. Pretty Boy fed Bass too, almost as an afterthought when Charlotte had finished. It was beans mixed with some kind of questionable meat that he’d rather not know the origin of. 

His stomach still growled afterwards, even though he knew not to expect anything more for hours. Tired of all the previous activities he’d been occupying his eyes with, he finally allowed them to stray back to Charlotte. She was slumped as deeply into the wall as the rope would allow, head resting against the wall behind her and eyes closed against the brightness of the sun. She was so still it looked like she was sleeping, but her breathing wasn’t even enough for that. He watched a bead of sweat collect in the hollow of her throat, then followed its path with interest as it rolled slowly down her collarbone and disappeared into her cleavage. He licked his dry lips and darted his eyes away. That was…not a good idea. 

His eyes snapped back to her face when she spoke, breaking hours of silence. “I’m not going to tell you where Miles is, you know.” She hadn’t moved an inch, eyes still shut. Another bead of sweat was collecting at her throat, but he studiously avoided watching its descent this time.

“I’m not asking,” he mumbled. 

“But you want to.” It wasn’t a question. She cracked an eye open to squint at him, a smug smile slipping onto her face. “I _do_ know you, at least that much.” 

“Why would I want that, Charlotte?” He tilted his head at her, tugging on his rope for emphasis. “I’m going nowhere fast.” 

She snorted at that, opening both eyes and looking at him like he was crazy. “I’m not an idiot.” 

“Never said _you_ were.” _Pretty Boy, on the other hand…._  

 She stared at him for a while, eyes flickering over his face like she was searching for something. “I meant what I said before. About killing you.” 

“I’m aware,” he said dryly. He could see the earlier tension in her body was mostly gone now, a combination of the heat, exhaustion, and long, dull hours robbing her of it. But her eyes were still like ice and her voice cut.

“They saved your life, you know,” she continued, jerking her head in a general upwards direction. He acknowledged that with only the slightest raising of his eyebrows. She laughed mirthlessly. “Funniest thing. I had a clear shot on you. Then they came out of nowhere, knocked you out. The arrow flew right over your head.” She smiled a strange, tight little smile. 

He was good at keeping his face impassive, but he couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. “That was you? The woman who wanted to see me?” She said nothing, just raised her chin defiantly. He started laughing, a genuine laugh this time, one that shook his body silently as he tried to stifle it. Maybe he was crazy after all. When his life wasn’t a tragedy, it was a farce. Charlotte Matheson was an assassin, bounty hunters were accidentally saving his life, and he was steadily getting more and more dehydrated while standing in a place that was designed to hold thousands of gallons of water. 

Charlotte was eyeing him like she thought he was deranged. He coughed and cleared his throat to put a stop to the laughing. “Well. I’m impressed,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. 

Her eyes narrowed. “There is something seriously wrong with you.” 

His lips twitched. “I could say the same about you, Charlotte.” 

She rolled her eyes, and for half a second his heart clenched at the long forgotten yet still familiar gesture. It was a remnant of little Charlotte, the one he’d known before the blackout, and it was both wonderful and painful to see at the same time. 

The moment passed as quickly as it came, and she’d leaned her head back against the pool wall, blue eyes locked on his face once again. When she spoke this time, it was so soft he could barely hear it. A precaution against the bounty hunters, words meant only for him. “This isn’t over. I’ll follow you. As long as it takes.” 

She was right; there was something wrong with him. She’d just breathed a death threat and he was welcoming it as a promise, storing her words away carefully where he kept all his precious memories. The truth was, he’d always had an unhealthy relationship with any Matheson who’d crossed his path. He still loved Miles fiercely, despite the fact that the man had tried to kill him multiple times. He’d always felt oddly attached to Rachel, even when he was holding her prisoner or when she was trying to kill him. And he’d loved little Charlotte once, when she was tiny and stubborn and reckless and brave, and it was possible he could love her now, when she was grown up and still all of those things.

Charlotte’s death threats would have struck fear into a sane person’s heart. All they did for him was give him a bizarre, morbid sort of hope. He smiled sadly at her. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.” 

They didn’t speak again as the late afternoon shadows began slanting across the pool, providing some relief. They didn’t speak when Pretty Boy brought them more water. They didn’t speak when dusk settled in and Eyepatch came down to untie him. He snapped the corner of tile away from the wall at the last possible moment, tucking it carefully out of sight between his hands. He followed Eyepatch out of the pool, trying not to stumble over debris, fumbling his way up the steep slant with his hands tied behind his back. As he trailed behind Eyepatch on their way to the trailer, he glanced down into the pool to see Pretty Boy cutting Charlotte’s hands loose, as he’d known he would. The kid wasn’t cut out to be a bounty hunter. He indulged himself in one last look at her, enveloped in darkness as she was, before Eyepatch yanked him forward towards the trailer. 

He clenched the jagged piece of tile tighter in his bleeding fingers, her words still revolving around his head. _I’ll follow you_. He was counting on it. He’d just need to make sure his hands were no longer tied when she caught up with him.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out disproportionately longer than the rest of them. I just had so much fun writing it (and Charlie/Bass!) that I got a bit carried away.
> 
> Bass was apparently enough of a fan of Casablanca to remember a quote from it all these years later. Don't even ask.
> 
> I dearly love reviews, if you'd be so kind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue (which amounts to about two lines) is taken from episode 2x02.

The jagged piece of tile is clutched in his hands, ready to be used, but Bass makes himself wait. No more rushing headlong into situations that could get him killed without stopping to consider his options first. But old habits die hard. He forces himself to take deep, even breaths, sitting as still as possible so the bounty hunters have no reason to check on him. He’d determined before he left the pool that he was going to wait until they were several miles away before making his escape. The horses aren’t in much of a hurry, moving somewhere between a brisk walk and a trot. He doesn’t even need to do the math in his head; he knows exactly how long it takes a horse to go a certain distance at a certain pace. He counts the seconds and minutes out steadily in his head. Even after sixteen years, it still strikes him as strange sometimes the things that come so easily to him now, the kinds of knowledge he has that he would never have dreamed he’d need in the old world. 

It’s only been about two miles, but his patience is starting to wear thin, and he’s already annoyed with the gag they fastened tightly across his mouth. Like it’s even necessary. Who’s he going to call to for help? Just someone else who wants him dead, and probably sooner. He strains upward and sneaks a glimpse out the barred side windows of the trailer. He can’t see much in the darkness, but the wind turns some tree branches into shifting shadows, and it looks like there are a lot of them. If they’re in the woods, all the better. He’d already been planning on running a perpendicular path away from the road, but trees will certainly hide his flight better than the open fields he’d been afraid he might have to head into. 

He makes himself wait a little bit longer. He assumes Charlotte is coming after them, something the bounty hunters don’t seem to be considering, given their less-than-urgent pace. He’s glad they’re idiots, since that means they didn’t take Charlotte’s words or actions seriously. If they had, he and Charlotte would probably be dead. Instead, they’re both very much alive, and if he wasn’t so worried about her catching up too quickly, he’d be relieved about that. Pretty Boy left her partially tied, and she’d probably have to run the whole way to catch up with them. Bass is trying to time his escape to the sweet spot where he could circle back to the road and run into her before she catches up. Possibly. He still doesn’t have that part of his plan worked out fully, not sure if he should attempt to persuade her to take him to Miles or just scrap that whole plan and leave her behind. The latter’s definitely the less dangerous of the two scenarios. He resigns himself to the fact that he’s going to have to go back to making snap decisions, at least for now, from the moment he escapes the trailer. 

Another half mile, and he can’t take it anymore. He carefully rotates the tile in his fingers so the jagged side is up, then begins sawing at his bonds as silently as possible. They snap apart more easily than he expected. Apparently they don’t make quality rope like they used to. He yanks the gag over his head the minute his hands are free, then quickly unties his ankles. He eyes the compartment he’s in for a weapon for what seems like the hundredth time, fruitlessly, just like all the other times. He can see supplies through the grating separating him from the front part of the trailer, but he can’t get through it without making noise. He’ll have to go without. He slides silently to the back doors, muscles cramped and complaining, wishing he had room to stretch them out before the extended sprint he knows is ahead of him. He ignores the pain instead, slipping his fingers through the crack between the doors, using the tile to slide the bolt open. It’s a little rustier than he thought it would be, so it sticks at first. He puts more pressure on it, and it jolts open with a metallic clank that’s much louder than he would like. He knows the door is going to squeak when he opens it as well, but he hopes the jangling of the harnesses and the creaking sway of the trailer are enough to mask the noises. 

He checks over his shoulder one last time, then launches himself out the door, cursing inwardly as his leg muscles give out on him and he lands much more heavily on the road than he meant to. He rights himself instantly, adrenaline kicking into high gear, and takes off into the trees, not even sparing a second to check if the bounty hunters heard him; he knows they did. In case he was in any doubt, Eyepatch starts shouting behind him and the wagon creaks slowly to a stop. 

Bass pumps his arms and legs faster, keeping his breathing quiet and even like he’s going for a slow jog, trying to listen for footsteps behind him. He keeps an eye on the ground; running full speed over grass in the dark is never a good idea, and the last thing he needs to do right now is stumble over a log or step in a hole. He’s paying so much attention to the ground that he doesn’t notice the chain-link fence looming ahead of him in the dark until he’s almost upon it. He doesn’t even break stride, throws himself at it and starts climbing without a second thought, hoping that maybe once he gets over it he’ll have a good enough head start. 

It’s Eyepatch who catches up to him first. _Damn, the old man’s faster than he looks_ , Bass thinks even as Eyepatch grabs him by the belt and yanks him off the fence. _Stronger too_. As Bass tumbles to the ground next to him, he almost feels momentarily sorry for the guy. 

They already made the mistake of revealing their weakness to him: they can’t kill him, or they don’t get the bounty. He’s under no such restriction. He’s not laboring under any delusions about what this so-called U.S. Government plans to do with him once they have him. He’s pretty certain death would be preferable, right here, right now, and if the bounty hunters can’t give it to him, he’s going to have to give it to them. If he dispatches Eyepatch quickly enough, he might even be able to get away before Pretty Boy finds him. 

He scrambles up the instant he hits the ground, already swinging. Eyepatch swings back and manages to land a grazing hit to his stomach, but Bass hardly feels it. He hardly feels anything when his blood is up. One good punch to the face and Eyepatch falls back against the fence with a rattle. Bass flips him around, slamming him into the fence again, this time face-first, then shoves him to the ground, trying to get a chokehold on his neck. Eyepatch makes some garbled noises and Bass sees his hand slipping towards his belt out of the corner of his eye, where he knows the man keeps a knife. He slams his boot down on Eyepatch’s hand, and he knows the man’s done. He retreats inside his head as he always does when he has to kill someone, letting his body take over. No thoughts, no emotions, just action. He tightens his grip and twists sharply to the side, snapping the man’s neck and letting him drop heavily to the ground. 

He’s just about to launch himself at the fence again when another body slams into him, knocking him to the ground. So much for that plan. 

“You killed him, you son of a bitch!” Pretty Boy sounds so outraged, it’s almost comical. Bass is guessing he hasn’t been a bounty hunter for long and isn’t familiar with the more unpleasant aspects of the job. 

He’s hitting hard though; he’s angry now. Bass thinks he might have forgotten about the bounty and is just trying to kill him. He has Bass on his back against the ground, so there’s no way to duck when he sees his fist coming at his face. It collides hard against his jaw, forcefully enough to slam Bass’s head against the ground. He blinks dizzily, trying to readjust his vision, but decades of practice have honed to near-perfection his skill at relying on his other senses in a fight. He doesn’t need sight to know just where to jab Pretty Boy sharply in the chest. He doesn’t need sight to leverage a booted foot up and use it to toss the startled man off of him and up against the fence. 

Bass scrambles up before Pretty Boy can recover his balance, landing a punch in the exact same spot on the jaw Pretty Boy hit him seconds earlier, sending him careening into the fence again. Pretty Boy recovers more quickly this time, but not quickly enough. He might be holding up longer than Eyepatch did, but his anger is making him sloppy. He throws his fist out in a wide punch that Bass ducks under easily, coming back up in one smooth motion to shove Pretty Boy back into the fence before he can get another wild swing in. 

Bass gets an arm up against his throat pretty easily, irritated that he has to do this again. He tilts his head back as Pretty Boy begins making ugly choking noises and clawing ineffectually at his face. It’s the kid’s own fault for being in such a hurry to get himself killed. If he’s heard anything about General Monroe, he should know better than to fight him one-on-one, bounty and dead partner notwithstanding. Attacking him was reckless, and recklessness gets you killed in this world. Not that Bass is complaining. Pretty Boy’s bad judgment is his stroke of luck, because now he’ll have a chance at a vehicle, supplies, and most importantly, weapons, all things he wasn’t counting on having mere minutes before. 

The bounty hunter’s beginning to suck in his last desperate gasps for air when Bass hears running footsteps behind him and something slams into his back hard enough to make him lose his grip on Pretty Boy and stumble into the fence. He whips around to see it’s Charlotte with a metal pipe in her hands and murder in her eyes. It throws him for a moment, frightening him more than a couple of bounty hunters ever could. She caught up faster than he’d calculated she would. He’s underestimating everyone tonight. A dangerous thing to do. 

She’s swinging the pipe as wildly as Pretty Boy was swinging his fists before, but she’s got more force and a better aim behind her swings. But Bass isn’t going to fight her, and that’s what’s going to make her more difficult to stop. If choking the life from her like the other two was an option, he’d already have his hands wrapped around her throat. He doesn’t have much practice with this whole passive resistance thing though. He backs away from her swiftly, bringing his hands up in a half-hearted gesture of surrender, doubting that’s going to do any good. She doesn’t even pause for a second. The pipe reflects a flash of moonlight as it swings toward him again, with just enough time for him to twist to the side and let his shoulder take the brunt of it. He leaps backwards immediately after, hearing the pipe whoosh through empty air, hoping the miss will throw her off balance. 

It doesn’t, of course, because this is Charlotte Matheson. Fighting is in her genes, as natural as breathing. He’s acutely aware that if she hits him on the head, she could actually succeed in killing him. This passive thing isn’t working very well. He twists away again, trying to make a snap decision about what to do, wincing in pain as the pipe slams into his back once more. Maybe the hand gesture and his evasive actions aren’t obvious enough. Maybe he can talk her down, if there’s any part of her that’s still feeling rational. 

She swings again, and the words burst out of him as he dodges. “Charlie, Charlie, stop!” 

The diminutive slips off his tongue without even crossing his mind first, and it sounds both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. The thought flashes through his mind that it’s the first time he’s called her that to her face. For a split second he thinks it might have an effect, but she looks even angrier, if that’s possible. Another hit lands squarely on his opposite side, then another. His ribs are starting to feel bruised. 

He keeps backing up, trying to buy himself time to think his way out of this predicament he’s cornered himself into. He’s not used to trying to be the rational one in a fight; he’s always been the instinctual one. Thoughts race through his mind so fast he can hardly process them before they’re gone. _This isn’t working. She’s not going to stop_. _I have to force her to stop._ _I’ll have to hurt her_. _I don’t want to hurt her_. Then something clicks into place, and his body knows what to do. He drops to the ground, bringing his left arm up to block her downward swing, then lunges towards her exposed midsection with his right arm. The next thing he knows, she’s gasping for air on the ground from one well-placed hit to her solar plexus. 

His instincts know Pretty Boy is somewhere behind Charlotte, that neither of them will probably be on the ground for long, and he should already be running away. But he lingers for a few seconds, stopping to look down at Charlotte, flicking his gaze over her body quickly to make sure she’s unhurt, even though he was careful to hit a spot that would only wind her, not injure her. He’s reluctant to leave her here by herself. The Plains Nation is a dangerous place to be wandering around alone, especially for someone who’s acting as recklessly as she’s been lately. He doesn’t want to think about what could happen to her. And Miles would kill him if he knew he’d left her here like this. If his niece doesn’t manage it first. What’s Bass supposed to do, force her to go with him? Tie her up and toss her over his shoulder? That’s going to go over really well. He’d probably get a knife in the stomach for his trouble the first time he dared to fall asleep. 

She sucks in a noisy gulp of air and twists to look up at him. Their eyes meet fleetingly, and he sees angry resolve there still. She’s determined to misunderstand him. 

There’s nothing for it. Bass takes off running at full speed, back towards the road, before she can summon enough air to push herself back to her feet. He’s going to steal the bounty hunters’ vehicle and get a head start. Because he knows a head start is the most he can hope for.

Charlotte’s going to follow him. And he’s probably going to let her.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a lot of really sad Bass feelings from tonight's episode, so I figured finishing this chapter was the best way to deal with them. But now this story's done and I'm sad again. These two kids are life-ruiners (in a good way)!
> 
> I've got a few other story ideas revolving around in my head, so be on the lookout for those if you're interested. :) I'm also open to taking prompts if anyone feels so inclined to leave me one.
> 
> Thanks for reading/kudosing/commenting. You guys are the best!


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